If you ever read any book about love languages, my mother’s picture should be on the opening of the chapter on gift giving
milk, a few yogurts, bread, and a package of lettuce. I thought for a minute and removed the container of pareve ice cream and gently placed it back in the freezer. There, that shouldn’t be more than 50 shekel.
As I walked into our small Jerusalem apartment, my American DSL line rang. It was my mother calling from New York.
“Hi, sweetie, how are you?”
“I’m good, Ma. You?” I replied while cutting a salad.
“Mattie, you know Shaindy from across the street, right? She’s coming to Israel to visit her daughter in seminary,” my mother informed me, “and she agreed to take a package. I’m sending you a few things. Nothing too crazy, just a taste of home. Oy, we miss you, Mattie,” she sighed momentarily, but then brightened immediately.
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